Armchairs
by Fail with Eloquence
Summary: They're both laughing, as if it's a perfectly appropriate thing to do when you find your best friend, dead for three years, sitting in your old living room. S/J.


**Disclaimer: **"Sherlock" belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Spoilers: **The Reichenbach Fall

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><p>John Watson moves slowly, making his way up Marlyebone Road. It's rather busy for a cold Sunday afternoon in February, and he weaves in and out of the paths of mothers and spit-fire children sliding across the sheet of ice on the ground, of drunken football fans on their way back from Thornbury Castle, of lovesick couples gripping onto one another and giggling as they try to stop each other from falling. He avoids all collisions and never once falters on the slippery pavement, and he's rather pleased with himself, because his arms are full of case files and newspaper articles and a Tesco Extra bag is swaying in the crook of his elbow (the necessities – milk, PG Tips, and a loaf of Warburton's thickest bread), and his limp is as prominent as it ever was.<p>

He turns left onto Baker Street and pauses to pull the keys from his pocket. His breath rises before him and now that he isn't moving, he feels the chilly air piercing his body. His shoulder is killing him, and he'd forgotten his damn gloves _again_, and he can't wait to get inside 221B today. It'll be a damn sight warmer in there than it is out here, so he sets off towards the flat at a brisk pace, desperate to get inside.

John Watson hasn't lived in 221B for a long time now. It had taken every last ounce of strength that he had possessed (which, at the time, hadn't been very much) to pull himself out of the flat three years ago, and flee across the city to a tiny apartment in Soho. At first, he had spent his waking hours (which, at the time, hadn't been very many) gazing out the window at the vibrant street and the lively individuals who walked over it, wondering why the hell he had chosen _here_ of all places to live. But alas, he had, at some point, miraculously made friends with a gay couple a few doors down, and soon found himself spending his waking hours (which had nearly doubled at this point, and began following a strictly nocturnal pattern) in the small clubs and bars of Soho, partaking in activities not entirely appropriate or wise for a man of 40. Somehow, he always seemed to find his way back home, and while the sun shone and the rest of the metropolis was in a flurry of work and socialization, he slept. And all of this had been made possible of course by one Mycroft Holmes, who, by means of an "apology", had offered to pay all of John's living expenses until he was again able to do so himself, eliminating the need for John to drag himself out to work everyday.

John's life had stayed on that course for two and a half surprisingly short years, gone almost in the blink of an eye. It wasn't until he'd received the surprise of waking one afternoon in the house of a stranger, that he had found himself, more or less, right back at the beginning. He had escaped the house without notice, and as soon as he'd stepped onto the pavement outside, he'd found himself face-to-face with St. Mary's Church Yard, where he had buried his best friend nearly two years and seven months previously. Though, if you'd asked John, he would've told you that it'd may as well have been yesterday.

He had spent the remainder of that day sitting before the grave of Sherlock Holmes, unravelling, cursing, and apologizing, to both himself and his late friend, for what he had let his life become. He'd stayed there well into the early hours of the morning, before picking himself up off the ground and making his way back home. A few hours later, with a shower and a shave and the sun shining a little too brightly, he'd found himself at Scotland Yard, all but begging Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade (newly re-instated after demotion) to let him assist on a case, even unofficially. Lestrade, with some coercion and a promise from John to actually _join_ the police force, had obliged.

It was this course of events that had ended up bringing John Watson back to 221B Baker Street nearly six months ago, and although still he doesn't live here, he's found himself frequenting the place more and more, seeing as how Mrs. Hudson had kept it vacant after he'd left (thanks again to Mycroft Holmes). It's a silly notion, he knows, but it helps with the cases. Or rather, he'd like to believe it does. He has, after all, successfully solved fourteen cases in the last six months, all within the walls of 221B. Sherlock would've been rather proud.

Having successfully made it up the road of Baker Street, untouched by ice salt or sand, he pushes open the door and drops the files on the small table by the door. Mrs. Hudson has the heating blasting, bless her soul, and he pauses to remove his coat. He absently calls for her as he flicks through the pages of the case, and when he receives no reply, he assumes that she's in the toilet, or perhaps next door, and he makes his way upstairs with the files.

He soon finds her, however, when he opens the door to 221B. She's sitting on the settee against the wall, dabbing at her eyes, and before he can do so much as step into the room, she's on her feet and running at him as if she hasn't seen him in years - which may have been true at one point, but he'd just come around last week.

"John! Oh John, he said you would come here today!" She throws her arms around his shoulders, an awkward embrace with the files in John's arms. She's practically sobbing, and John, having no idea what's going on, is rather alarmed by all of this.

"What's happened? Is everything okay? Why are you crying?" The words fall out of his mouth in one, quick breath. To his surprise, she sniffs and she chuckles and she pulls him into the living room, pointing towards the fireplace.

"He's come back, John."

Rather than following the path of her pointed finger, he stares at her. He looks from her hair – slightly knotted, damp, and tied back to suggest that she had been in the shower immediately before she'd come here. In fact, her shower had probably been interrupted – to her eyes that are brimming with tears – easy, something must've upset her - to the beam of a smile that she's wearing on her face. He does this sort of thing all the time now, usually only picking up on the most obvious of details, but connecting them and drawing easy conclusions. So, as he takes it all in and looks everywhere except at the thing that she's pointing to, he feels an uncertain anxiety creeping up his spine. It wouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to piece together all of the information and to know exactly what she's pointing to, and he finds that he doesn't want to look at it at all.

He barely bites back a "What? What is it?" because he hasn't asked a stupid question in years now, and that one is decidedly ridiculous. He'd never live it down.

Mrs. Hudson unloads the files from his arms and takes his teabags and his bread. John doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes forward as she turns to the fireplace. "It's so good to have you back," she says, but not to John. "I'll leave you boys alone."

And then, the unmistakable, undeniable rumble of, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

John turns his head so quickly that the room swims before him, and then, there he is. Sherlock.

He's staring at him, and it's easy to assume that he probably has been since Mrs. Hudson pulled him through the door. He's sitting in his black chair, looking comfortable, but perhaps a little _too _comfortable. One leg is propped up against his chest, the other stretched out before him on the floor. His hair is somewhat longer, choppier, presumably in an attempt to keep it out of his eyes, because god knows how much he hates that. He's wearing a new coat, but it's not so different than the one he had worn before. The collar is turned up, as usual, and a dark green scarf is wrapped snugly around his neck. He looks _remarkably _similar, as if he'd been gone on holiday for three weeks, rather than to grave for three years. He has a slight tan, and his hair may be a little greasier, but his eyes are as radiant as they ever were, and more importantly, they're alive.

"I'd better not find any more holes in my wall tonight, John." Mrs. Hudson warns him, before hurrying out of the flat and closing the door. Whether or not she still has his case files, he doesn't know. He doesn't care.

Sherlock's eyes are still on him as he leans his head against his hand. John blinks, releasing a cliché breath that he didn't even know he'd been holding, and moves to take a seat in his armchair, directly across from his friend. He can't think of what to say - because what _do_ you say? - but he opens his mouth anyway, because he has to say something, anything. Sherlock simply smiles and raises his finger to him.

"No," Sherlock says, and for a moment, John is tempted to roll his eyes and tell him that there is no way he knew what he was going to say. For god's sake, _John_ didn't even know what he was going to say.

"No, you're not dreaming. No, you haven't gone mad. And no, I don't want a cup of tea," he expands.

John blinks again, and averts his eyes to the skull that has remained alone on the mantle all this time. He never was able to bring himself to move Sherlock's things. Even his lab equipment was still sitting in the kitchen, exactly as it had been when John had informed Sherlock of Moriarty's reappearance. If he had known that one day, Sherlock would be sitting across from him again, refusing a cup of tea, John may have taken the time to remove the thick layer of dust that had settled over it. And everything else in the flat, for that matter.

"Coffee, then?" John says, his voice steady. Thank god for that.

Sherlock smiles, and John feels a strange laughter building up in this throat. He can't keep it in, and soon, they're both laughing, as if it's a perfectly appropriate thing to do when you find your best friend, dead for three years, sitting in your old living room.

God knows how long it lasts, but bloody hell, it does feel good.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through these last three years?" John's still laughing when he says it, and the question seems to surprise him more than it does Sherlock. He feels as if he should apologize, but Sherlock is quick in his response.

"Yes." It's a frank answer, and John is jolted by the sudden, sweeping realization that there was probably a reason that he had ended up in the safety of his own bed every night, save for one, and there was probably a reason for that as well. It had been a surprise to him then that he hadn't found himself underneath a bus or at the bottom of the Thames.

Suddenly, he's very angry about that.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" He stands, but doesn't move anywhere. He can't decide whether he wants to attack him, or smash his stupid skull (the one on the mantle, that is), or send something through the window, so he doesn't do anything. He drops back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why?"

Sherlock moves then, for the first time, shifting forward to rest his elbows on his on legs. "John, you know why."

"Sherlock, if you really think that I know, then you're terribly mistaken," he replies. It's only half a lie. If one had asked John last week why Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself off of the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital and irrevocably soiled his reputation, he would've told them that something unavoidable must've happened. Something unavoidable, and something terrible. He would've told them, with complete certainty, that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud, and he wouldn't have done what he did without good reason.

But now..?

Now Sherlock Holmes has risen from the dead after throwing himself off of the roof of the hospital, after soiling his reputation, after John had felt his pulse, and now John has no idea why or what the hell is even going on.

"You really shouldn't doubt yourself. You've come a long way, you know," Sherlock replies. "You've been solving cases, I hear."

"Sod off or answer the question." John crosses his arms and does his best to glare at him, but it's hardly a challenge. The anger is short-lived, and John can practically feel it ebbing out of him.

There's a long pause, and then: "Moriarty had placed hits on Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and yourself. There was only one way to call them off." Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, trying his hand at nonchalance, as if what he had done was of no importance. It's a condensation of events, but he knows that it should suffice for now, and it does.

They fall silent for a few minutes, Sherlock's gaze never straying from John's face. He studies him, watches the muscles in his jaw contract underneath his skin and the way his eyelids drop slightly as the gears turn in his head. The simple, concise explanation has shed more light on what had happened on top of the hospital than John had learned to ever hope for. He had spent endless, sleepless nights immediately after the incident, turning over facts and theories in his head, trying to figure out _why_. He'd just never once considered the idea that Sherlock hadn't done it for himself, but for others.

John can't help but feel a little bit guilty about that.

He meets Sherlock's gaze. He wants to say more, to ask more, to apologize for his lack of faith, but his brain can't process the words, the questions. He settles for one, and the little effort it takes to vocalize it: "How?"

How did you know? How could you have been sure? How come you didn't tell me? How did you know where I was every night? But Sherlock knows John, and sifts through all possible endings to the question until he reaches the correct one, the one that will justify that he _is_ here. _How did you do it?_ "It was just a magic trick, John."

John nods slightly, inhaling through his nose and pursing his lips into a straight line and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Amusement, anger, and finally, this.

It's a stupid, ruddy feeling, and John knows it well. It would creep on him from time to time, gripping his heart so tightly that it would bring tears to his eyes. Sometimes, especially at the beginning, it would prey on him for hours on end, towering over him as he cradled his knees and struggled to breathe. It's here again now, tightening his chest, burning his eyes.

Sherlock, well-known for being spectacularly ignorant of many things, including human emotions, senses John's dilemma. He rises and crosses the gap between the chairs in one swift movement, towering over John for a moment before settling on the ends of his knees. He still hasn't bothered taking off his coat, and John vaguely, at the back of his mind, wonders how long he's been waiting here, and if he's planning to stay. It's a long coat, and the tails hang behind him and cover John's feet. Sherlock hesitates then, his eyebrows furrowing, no longer looking at John's face, but at his chest. He reaches his hand forward and takes hold of John's coarse jumper.

"John." It's John's turn to look at Sherlock now, to watch as he stumbles over his words. He's so close that John can't help but slide his hands up his long, pale neck. Underneath his fingertips, he can feel the blood pumping through Sherlock's carotid artery. He brings his hands to rest in Sherlock's long hair. "John, I know that I've hurt you terribly, and-" he pauses, locking his gaze onto John's. His voice is strained, and John swallows back the emotion creeping up his throat and threatening to burst out of him. "I want you to know that I _am _sorry, John." His voice cracks ever so slightly at the end as he leans forward and presses his lips to John's forehead, and then to his brow. He kisses John's temple, and when they flutter closed, he kisses his eyelids. He kisses his nose and his cheek and the side of his mouth, and then he kisses John's lips, and the dams are broken.

It's short and anything but sweet as John's sobs take over and his body shudders under the strain of emotion. He reaches for Sherlock, taking him by the lapels of his coat and burying his head into his chest, the fabric of the green scarf rubbing softly against his skin. Sherlock cradles his head, still straddling him in his chair. It's incredibly intimate, but John is beyond worrying about such nonsense now.

"Sherlock," John whispers into his body after some time, tripping over the syllables of his name. He tries again. "Sherlock Holmes, please," he breathes, "please don't come back here just to leave me again."

Sherlock places a kiss on the crown of John's head, shaking his own. No, never again.

John sighs, tilting his head slightly to listen to the heavy thud of Sherlock's heart. "Good," he says. "Then I'm really sorry for the state of your lab equipment."

_fin. _

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><p><em>Please review.<em>


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